Lover I Don't Have to Love
by chemxalromance
Summary: Inspired by and words taken from the Bright Eyes song of the same name. BlaisexHermione, Blaisex[?]. For Jo, who gave me a reason to love the second pairing.


I spotted her in the middle of the crowd, looking out of place in a club that was so very obviously not her scene. She seemed quiet, meek, and completely unfamiliar with her surroundings. I knew her, even then I could tell I had seen her before, but I couldn't place my finger on it. She frowned at the gyrating bodies around her and left the floor, opting instead to sit alone at the bar. She reeked of depression and alcohol, but I approached her anyways.

"I like your shoes," I said. I was never one for pickup lines.

"Thanks," she replied, with her eyes unfocused. She looked pale, almost gaunt, but I was still interested.

"Can I follow you?" she asked suddenly, and I nodded.

Up the stairs we went, back to my flat. It's a secluded space, out of view. In Muggle London, no less. It was the last place anyone expected to find me. It was the first place I looked.

I poured some wine for the two of us, despite the fact that she seemed to be under the influence of things much stronger. I handed it to her while she looked at me with those haunting eyes. Brown. Nothing special about them. Nothing special about her, really. She was so familiar…

"What's your name?" I asked belatedly.

She seemed unwilling to answer me for a moment, although in hindsight it might have been better if she had. Easier, at the very least.

"Hermione. It's Hermione, Blaise."

That was that, then. Hermione Granger, first in my graduating class, now down to my very own level. The Slytherin in me smirked, while the rest of me mourned for what she could have been.

"Do you know what time it is?" she asked me, and I glanced over at the clock on the mantle. It was two o'clock, and that I told her. The words had barely left my mouth when I felt a tentative hand on my arm. She had put her wine on the table and I did the same. This is what it was to come to, anyways.

I longed to taste her, to reason why she had come here and how far she had fallen. She must have sensed it, my underlying hesitation. She plunged her tongue into my mouth, stopping any words that might have fallen out. I leaned into her hungrily; she tasted of strong alcohol and blood. I towered over her. She was so small, so very small, her tiny hips were pushing against me and I barely felt it except for the strain it caused in my groin. I was amazed at how wanton she sounded, how much she needed me. Or maybe it wasn't me. Maybe she just needed this. I gave it to her; it was all I had to give.

* * *

We lay entangled, still sweaty while the scent of sex drifted in and out of our noses. She got up quickly and began rummaging through her handbag.

"I asked the kid with the chemicals to meet me earlier, and I got some free. Well, not exactly _free_, but I don't mind giving in every once in a while."

She looked almost happy then, and I longed to see her stay that way. When she had found what she was looking for I realized what she had been talking about. Muggle drugs, how utterly useless.

She saw the frown on my face, and tried to placate my worries.

"It feels good," she said.

Hesitantly, I replied, "I'll give it a try."

As she showed me how, I remembered her as she used to be, those long years ago. The bright, happy Gryffindor, always hanging around with Wonder Boy and Weasley…

Suddenly I remembered. I remembered, and I realized. Oh, Hermione, it wasn't worth it. He wasn't worth it. I didn't mean to, I had thought then, but I knew I was lying.

"Why do you do it?" I asked her.

She was leaning back, her head against my cool wooden headboard. Her eyes opened slowly, wary and weary and heartbreaking all at once.

"I'm too sad to give a fuck."

* * *

I had left Hermione in front of a Flooing queue the next morning and went my own way. My wards wouldn't allow anyone other than Him and I to use my fireplace in the Floo network, and I regretted having to leave her there with strangers. We didn't say goodbye. We didn't need to. She had her own life; although I worried that it would be cut short all too soon.

That night, I ended up where I usually went every Saturday. The band was playing. _His_ band was playing, and I pretended not to notice. I acted the part of sex god, as usual, and soon enough boys and girls alike were itching to get into my trousers. I didn't want them. I didn't want to think about their filthy mouths fouling my cock. I belonged to no one. No one but Him.

He found me afterwards, as I knew He would. The rest of the band was leaving and getting miffed at the fact that He wasn't coming. He didn't go, as I knew He wouldn't.

* * *

He's drunk. They're always drunk. His words slur unattractively, and yet I'm already half-hard from the sight of Him. I touch Him experimentally, because I had dreamt about it for so long and could no longer keep my hands to myself. I will end up cursing myself for being so weak, but when he reciprocates all I can feel is lust.

His voice drives me insane. So deep and fiery, husky when aroused. He makes a perfect singer. I can't get enough of it, of any of it. Let's just keep touching. Let's just keep singing.

He barely talks, but I understand. It's the Firewhiskey in His system, and I don't admonish Him for it. I wouldn't admonish Him for anything. I love Him, and He knows it. I used to whisper it to Him after we had sex, but I never heard it in return. He couldn't be known as the one who sullied his reputation with a Slytherin. In His absence the thought made me angry, but I had forgiven Him. I had always forgiven Him.

We touch, and touch, and touch. This time it's different and I know it. I can feel it in the way He looks at me with those startlingly blue eyes. He missed this as much as I did, and the thought sends blood rushing to the place where I ache for Him to touch me.

He filled me in a thousand ways that night.

* * *

The next morning, I woke up to the scratching sound of writing, and I looked over at my lover. He gave me a lazy smile, but resumed what He was working on. I laid quietly for a few minutes, relishing at the no doubt short amount of time I would have to spend with Him. I vowed to remember every detail in order to sustain my addiction.

Addiction. Where was Hermione? At that point I was thinking how much I could have used her filthy Muggle drugs and her filthy Mudblood hands. She offered a distraction, despite the guilt she also inspired. So long as she was oblivious to my role, I assumed I was free from blame.

He looked up, excited.

"I wrote another song about you," he said with a grin.

I got up slowly from the bed and took the offered paper. While I was reading, He was talking in that voice that He knew would drive me crazy.

"I'm not sure if I like it, yet. But it's different, you know. From all the other ones about you. It's… different."

I read it twice, to make sure I understood. I was right in thinking that last night was different. He loves me. He won't say it yet, not to me, but He always did speak better through song. They were beautiful lyrics, but I grew unspeakably angry.

"You write such pretty words," I told him, flatly. I could already see the lines of hurt etching slowly across His face.

"Life's no fucking storybook, Ron. Love's an excuse to get hurt and to hurt."

I wished even then that I had explained it more. How I should have told him what he did to me all those years ago, what he was still doing to me even then. The secret meetings in the Astronomy Tower, the midnight calls after graduation for a fuck and a place to stay. I didn't want to be his whore, but I was. I loved him, more than Hermione, more than Harry, more than anyone else could ever say. I loved him, and I hated him for it.

"Do you like to hurt?" I asked him.

"I do," he said quietly. Then with more force, reaching up to clutch my shirt, "I do!"

"Then hurt me."

And he did.


End file.
